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BY  A  WESTERN  WAYSIDE 


BY 


MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 


SANTA  BARBARA 

CRAFT     CAMARATA 

1912. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY 

EUNICE  HILLER 


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Second  Edition 
Copyright:  1912 
Donna  1.  Youmans 


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NOTE 

The  thanks  of  the  author  are  due  to  the  pubUshers 
of  the  Los  Angeles  Times  for  permission  to  reprint  "The 
First  Rain,"  and  to  the  publishers  of  the  Graphic  for 
permission  to  reprint  "With  The  Trees,"  in  this  volume. 


INVOCATION. 

O  pepper  trees,  that  throw  a  shade  of  lace  across  the 

noon, 
O  palms,  that  sharpen  in  the  sky  beneath  a  winter  moon, 
O  liveoaks,  trailing  gray-green  moss,  none  shall  forget 

you  soon ! 

0  sea  of  many  mighty  moods,  of  challenge,  cry  and  call, 
A  vari-colored  voice  thou  hast,  and  melody  for  all. 
And  by  thy  song,  thy  rage,  thy  dream,  behold  us,  held 
in  thrall! 

O  sere  brown  summits,  rusty  bent  below  the  fadeless 

blue, 
O  luring  hills,  wrapped  in  grey  fog  and  shyly  peering 

through, 
O  merry  heights,  made  green  by  rain,  we  lift  our  hearts 

to  you ! 

O  hearken  all,  great  brotherhood  of  earth  and  sea  and 

air, 
Dear  sisterhood  of  growing  things,  sweet  walks  and 

gardens  fair. 
Through  you  we  seek  a  larger  love  and  make  more 

valiant  prayer ! 


ON  THE  EAST  BOULEVARD 

By  a  Western  wayside, 

Walking  hard  and  slow, 
Foot  a-lag,  heart  a-sag. 

Farther  yet  to  go, 
I  was  clean  discouraged, 

Beaten  and  forspent. 
Till  I  heard  a  hearty  voice 
Ringing  with  content- 
In  a  rancher's  wagon. 

Half  a  yard  from  me. 
Sat  a  stranger— brother— 

"Would  you  like  a  lift?"  said  he. 

Many  a  time  Fve  heard  it. 

With  a  thrill  of  joy. 
Heard  it  from  the  millionaire 

And  the  market  boy ; 
Motors,  proudly  speeding. 

Stop  beside  the  shore, 
Mexicanos'  weary  nags 

Pull  one  weight  the  more. 


Friends,  no  introduction 

Needs  to  make  you  mine, 
You,  who  hail  the  Father-Love 

By  this  brother-sign. 
Glad  to  share  your  comfort, 

Rich — when  such  as  we 
With  cheerier  soul  press  to  the  goal 
Our  faith  has  power  to  see. 
Many  a  time  we  hear  it, 
By  the  Western  way. 
From  a  kindly  stranger, 
"Would  you  like  a  lift  to-day?" 


THE  FIRST  RAIN 

We,  the  hills,  are  athrill  with  Hfe,  new  Ufe, 
Granted  after  the  sere  and  sun-baked  days; 
We  dress  us  anew  in  a  fair  green  gown  of  praise; 
We  have  kissed  the  mist  and  into  the  canons  rush 
The  streams,  new  bom  to  murmuring  after  the  hush 
Of  the  soft,  dry  summer.  Ah,  let  the  summer  wane! 
And  now,  all  hail,  the  rain ! 

I,  the  sea,  am  glad  as  the  hills  can  be- 
Out  of  my  bounty  into  the  sky  I  gave— 
That  returns  which  was  once  the  foam  of  my  wave! 
All  the  summer,  erect  they  have  stood  apart— 
Now  the  hills  are  drawn,  drawn  down  to  my  heart— 
The  treasure  they  yield  the  freshet  my  tides  shall 

gain; 
The  rain!  All  hail,  the  rain! 


We,  the  birds,  can  rejoice  no  more  to  rise 
Out  of  the  valleys  higher  and  higher  still 
To  find  the  assuaging  drop,  the  little  rill 
That  splashes  cool  on  our  rusty,  dusty  wings. 
Lo !  In  a  day  the  valley  shrills  and  sings, 
Drenched  with  music,  mad  with  the  new  refrain, 
"The  rain,  all  hail  the  rain!" 

We,  the  liveoaks,  we,  the  little  brown  buds, 
We,  the  seedlings,  hidden  under  the  earth. 
Quiver  afresh  with  the  lust  of  life  and  birth; 
We,  the  sycamores,  we,  the  olive  trees  gray, 
We,  the  golden  poppies,  awake  and  pray— 
Join  with  us,  ye,  who  harvest  the  fruit,  the  grain  ! 
All  hail  the  rain !  the  rain ! 

By  permission  of  The  Los  Angeles  Times. 


OUR  BUNGALOWS. 

Little  redwood  shingles 

Laid  in  careful  rows, 
On  the  beams  of  redwood 

Build  our  bungalows. 
Never  mind  foundations, 

Cellars  we  forget, 
Such-like  excavations 

Soon  would  make  us  fret ! 

Never  mind  a  furnace. 

Build  a  fireplace  wide. 
Logs  of  eucalyptus 

Soon  shall  glow  inside; 
Chaparral  shall  kindle. 

Oak  shall  warm  the  guest; 
We  can  toast  our  faces, 

Never  mind  the  rest! 

Little  rooms  are  cosy, 

Furnished  with  big  chairs; 
Little  rooms  have  meanings 

Every  comrade  shares. 
On  the  table,  raisins. 

And  a  walnut  bowl. 
Grapes  from  sunny  Sespe, 

Apples  sound  and  whole. 

Never  mind  your  costume. 

Never  mind  your  purse; 
You,  we  love  no  better. 

You,  we  like  no  worse; 
For  that  you  are  shabby. 

For  that  you  are  gay; 
If  your  heart  be  with  us. 

Enter,  friend,  and  stay ! 


Stay  to  lunch  or  dinner, 

Breakfast  if  you  will; 
Dad  can  make  the  coffee 

Many  cups  to  fill, 
Never  mind  the  housework; 

Dishes?    They  can  wait ! 
Such  a  rich  manafia 

Is  our  blessed  fate  ! 

Only  feather  dusters. 

Hanging  at  each  door, 
Say,  "Good  friend  have  pity, 

Think  about  my  floor; 
In  the  dusty  autumn. 

Ere  the  rainy  days, 
Prithee  suit  your  manners 

To  our  Western  ways  !" 

Look !    The  day  is  sunny. 

Through  the  windows  peer. 
Buds  of  many  roses 

Nodding  in  good  cheer. 
Grace  and  loving  kindness. 

Fragrant  as  the  rose, 
Plentiful  as  blossoms. 

Bless  our  bungalows ! 


WITH  THE  TREES 


The  liveoaks  are  my  soldiery, 
gnarled  and  resistant,  beard- 
ed with  grey-green  droop- 
ing mosses.  They  stand 
about  my  dwelling  staunch, 
tireless,  unflinching,  the 
brave  masters  of  to-day  and 
to-morrow. 

The  sweet  pepper  trees  are  my 
fellows  and  companions,  full 
of  sympathy,  gay,  friendly, 
delicate  and  tactful,  demand- 
ing neither  too  much  nor  too  little  of  me, 
waving  long  plumes  in  the  breeze,  flashing  bright 
berries  in  the  sun.  When  I  go  out  I  seek  them,  and 
when  I  come  in  I  bring  them  with  me. 

The  eucalyptus  trees  are  my  poets  and  idealists,  strip- 
ping off  ruthlessly  the  binding  withered  bark  of  to- 
day, ready  to  stand  nude  under  the  sun  in  the  truth 
of  to-morrow,  with  high  borne  heads,  acquiescent  in 
the  beauty  of  life  and  death. 

The  sycamores  are  my  choice  and  careful  advisers,  re- 
mote and  infrequently  sought,  demonstrating  clear- 
ly that  one  way  is  not  so  good  as  another,  profiting 
by  the  tears  shed  in  springtime,  taking  the  way  of 
their  nature,  following  the  course  of  the  hill  streams, 
discriminating  between  this  and  that. 


The  olive  trees  are  my  ghosts,  my  memories  of  all  that 
has  been,  lingering  in  silver-grey  presence  near  the 
life  that  now  is,  turning  my  thoughts  back  and  in- 
ward upon  grey  days  of  pain  and  sadness,  or  silver 
days  of  joy,  that  I  may  remember  and  be  wise. 

Below  me  and  about  me  are  also  the  fair  fruit  trees  that 
live  but  for  the  hope  of  fragrant  blossoms,  that  are 
to  me  as  souls  that  strongly  love. 

At  night,  slowly  and  serenely,  rises  the  mist  from  the 
ocean  till  it  encloses  my  hillside  dwelling,  wrapping 
me  close  in  tremulous  silence  with  the  trees.  And, 
in  the  morning,  comes  the  sun,  the  revealer,  to  give 
us  over  to  each  other  anew. 

Make  me  to  understand  you  aright,  I  beseech  you,  my 
soldiers,  my  friends,  my  poets,  my  prophets,  my 
ghosts,  my  radiant  lovers,  my  trees  fair  favored 
and  at  peace ! 

Make  me  hardy  and  determined  as  yourselves,  0  live- 
oaks  near  my  dwelling ! 

Grant  me  somewhat  of  your  strange,  silent  sympathy, 
sweet  pepper  trees! 

Inspire  me  to  the  quest  of  beauty  and  truth,  beloved 
eucalyptus ! 

Counsel  out  of  many  sorrows  grant  me,  O  distant  and 
sagacious  sycamores! 

Yield  me  prescience  and  wisdom,  O  ghostly  olives ! 

Make  my  love  to  be  fragrant  and  mighty  as  yours,  dear 
trees  of  blossom  and  fruit  burden. 

Give  me  abundantly,  all  of  you,  of  your  manifold  gifts, 
for  all  I  am  and  for  all  that  I  give  forth ! 

Such  is  my  desire  while  I  am  with  the  trees. 

By  permission  of  The  Graphic. 


AT  THE  PLAZA 

Who  shall  be  kings  of  the  West? 

Who  shall  be  queens  by  the  sea? 
Who  but  our  bravest  and  best— 
Who  but  our  fairest  could  be? 
Who  shall  have  power  in  the  land  ? 

Who  shall  be  honored  afar  ? 
The  children  who  play  in  the  sand 
At  the  plaza, 

Los  Banos  del  Mar. 

Here  is  our  pride  and  renown, 

Here  is  our  laughter  and  wealth. 
Wading  stout  legged  and  brown, 
Ruddy  with  sunshine  and  health; 
Wonderful  castles  they  build- 
Quaint  little  builders  they  are- 
Weary  old  hearts  they  have  thrilled, 
At  the  plaza, 

Los  Bafios  del  Mar ! 


They  will  make  reins  of  the  kelp, 

Driving  us  into  the  blue; 
Fearless,  they  clamor  for  help 

When  the  great  combers  pursue; 
Fearless,  they  swim  and  they  dive, 

Jollier  than  a  Jacktar, 
Long  may  their  jollity  thrive, 
At  the  plaza, 

Los  Banos  del  Mar ! 

Who  shall  be  kings  of  the  West? 

Who  shall  be  queens  in  the  land? 
These  little  princes  unguessed, 

These  little  maids  by  the  strand— 
Heirs  of  devotion  complete 

By  their  dear  magic  they  are; 
Hail  to  the  royalty  sweet, 
At  the  plaza, 

Los  Banos  del  Mar  ! 


SANTA  BARBARA. 

0  little  town  beside  the  sea, 
Below  the  hills  and  near  my  heart, 
How  few,  who  come  and  go,  can  tell 
The  secret  of  thy  witchery ! 

Yet  has  thy  sea  the  glint  of  it, 
Thy  hilltops  wear  the  tint  of  it, 
My  heart  has  caught  a  hint  of  it. 

O  little  town  of  fragrant  nights 
When  all  the  essences  of  day 
Are  shed  upon  a  spendthrift  breeze. 
Cool,  cool  and  sweet— thy  quaint  delights — 
Whatever  fortunes  fall  to  me. 
When  dreams  and  love  are  all  to  me, 
Thy  fragrant  nights  shall  call  to  me. 

O  little  town,  thy  sunny  days 
Have  bred  a  folk  with  sunny  lives. 
With  sunny  thoughts  and  sunny  moods, 
And  pleasant,  gentle,  kindly  ways. 

What  many  have  been  sent  to  find, 
And  most  were  never  meant  to  find. 
Thy  witchery,  content  to  find. 


O  little  town  beside  the  sea, 
Below  the  hills  and  near  my  heart, 
How  few,  who  come  and  go,  can  tell 
The  secret  of  thy  witchery  ! 

But  those  who  guess  the  heart  of  it, 
Will  stay  to  learn  the  art  of  it. 
And  so,  become  a  part  of  it ! 


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